I never knew advertising was a thing until I scored an internship at a Manhattan firm for the summer in between semesters for business credit. I was pretty much an errand girl, getting lattes and lunch, copying and filing, but one day I was able to witness a high-level meeting with a team pitching a potential client to sell a new cereal to the marketplace. I knew immediately I wanted to experience that rush of adrenaline. I loved the concept of finding the right hook to sell a product. It was a perfect combination of statistics and research, driven by forcing the brain to think outside the box for creativity.
The creative director in the meeting was a sharply dressed male, handsome and charismatic, but it was the woman next to him who fascinated me. Her power suit and tight bun gave off a cool capability I craved to duplicate, and it was obvious she was the one who knew the most about the project. The man was the face of the company. She was the brains, evident in the way she answered the client’s endless questions while the supposed lead pretended he was allowing her to speak on his behalf.
I realized then that it was a boys’ club I’d have to break into. I didn’t just want to be her.
I wanted to be more. I wanted the man’s job. I refused to let any man try to steal my power. So, at twenty years old, I made myself a promise to learn everything about the business world and advertising. I swore I’d run my own company one day, on my terms.
I learned everything from the big power agencies, then moved north to avoid the major competition and opened my own place. I marketed it as a boutique alternative for clients who wanted to be treated like the national brands but didn’t have the big dollars. I drained my savings to invest in marketing and publicity, creating my own ads for my business, and my client base doubled within the first year.
Life was pretty much perfect. I was a young woman with a burgeoning business, finally making money. But I hadn’t counted on a strange twist that occurred when I turned twenty-eight. My valued assistant at the time, Sierra, had become pregnant. Yes, I was thrilled for her, but more concerned about how I’d plug the gap in my busy schedule for the three months she’d be on maternity leave. When she came into the office to show off her new daughter, I handed her an elegantly wrapped present, resigned to cooing and fussing over a newborn who couldn’t do anything but poop and sleep. Then she’d expertly slid the baby into my arms.
I looked down at the infant’s wrinkly face and pink skin; the way her tiny fingers curled into a fist and tried to push into her rooting mouth; the crease of a frown between her tightly closed eyes; the wriggly body squeezed into a white onesie printed with happy colorful butterflies; the smell of powder, soap, and innocence drifting to my nostrils. My insides suddenly stilled. Time became a flowing, liquid thing that made no sense as I stared, fascinated, at the magnificent creature in my arms. And as if right on cue to the perfect stimulus, my biological clock burst to life in stunning, vicious Technicolor.
For the first time, I craved something I couldn’t do on my own. This was nothing hard work, perseverance, and effort could accomplish. I spent an entire year obsessed with babies and pregnancy and the hidden life of motherhood I’d never cared to explore before. After researching every angle and option, I decided to attack my intense need for a baby like I had everything else.
I set a time limit of thirty. If I hadn’t met a man whom I envisioned a future with, I’d have the baby on my own. Freezing my eggs was a valid option, but I couldn’t imagine waiting too much longer to get pregnant. I refused to be one of those mothers who were too old to keep up with an infant and gray-haired by prom time. Already, biology was against me, favoring healthy pregnancies at a younger age. Maybe I wouldn’t have the traditional route the world believed in, but I knew I’d be a good mother, and my future son or daughter would have enough love from me to equal a dual set of parents.
The process suited my nature. I was able to pick out the father by doing meticulous research to find the best traits and advantages for my future baby. I became pregnant immediately and embraced every change in my body, relishing the growing life inside me that would give me new purpose.
When Allegra was born, I learned a valuable lesson. Books and research and intellectual knowledge meant nothing compared to the type of all-consuming, massive love I’d been capable of. The moment she was put on my stomach and our gazes met, I realized I’d reached an almost dangerous precipice. Nothing was more important than my daughter. The violent, ferocious need to protect and cherish my precious baby rocked and tore my stable world apart. My entire body trembled and shook when I held her, and for the first time, a crippling fear shot through my system, draining away my egotistical belief that I’d be able to control things. I was helpless and vulnerable to the cruel fates, no longer locked in my Rapunzel tower of confidence and capability.
And the voice inside me whispered, tormenting me with words that stung like a nest of wasps.
You made a mistake. This time, you’ll fail. You’ll never be enough for her.
And I cried, my head bowed over her perfect, precious face, and swore in that hospital bed I wouldn’t let her down.
I blinked, the distant memories slowly fading away. My surroundings took hold and I walked over to the French doors that led to the patio.
My daughter had been arrested for drugs.
I pressed my palms against the cool panes of glass and stared outside. The gardens were in full bloom, opening up to the spring sun with a hungry thirst to be reborn. I’d never had the inclination or patience to involve myself in gardening like my mother, preferring to hire out and enjoy the cultivated, clipped blooms after they’d been weeded and pruned and watered. As I stared at my pristine gardens, I wondered if I’d made a mistake yet again, like I had with my daughter. It had been easier to shroud myself within the safety of work and farm out the hard stuff to experts rather than diving into the mess. Maybe the dirt, thorns, and weeds were required to be dealt with before I’d be able to appreciate any future beauty. Maybe if I didn’t do it myself, I was just a fraud, like that man I’d observed long ago in that ad agency, his success only a pale imitation, hidden behind ego and a partner who’d done the actual work.
Dear God, what was I going to do?
I pushed away from the all-seeing windows and made my way into the kitchen. The cold gleam of stainless steel, black-and-white tile, and marble countertops usually soothed me, but right now I felt only emptiness as I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and sat down on a high-backed white leather chair.
I’d failed in the worst way possible. My daughter was smoking pot behind my back. Her name could appear in tomorrow’s paper—not to boast of an academic scholarship, but included on the local police blotter. All the hard work to get her poised for a successful college career tipped precariously toward disaster. But even the threat of community humiliation, academic discipline, or loss of opportunities meant nothing next to the knowledge that Allegra was in trouble.
Oh, I knew most mothers never believed their children could be doing drugs, drinking in the basement, or having sex without their knowledge. We figured we knew our kids. They’d grown in our bellies and were ripped out of our bodies. We watched every single moment of their life unfold in front of us. We bathed them, cleaned their poop, and introduced them to the world on our terms. But it meant nothing now.